God spoke to me through a dream one day, and it wasn’t even my own.
Sunbeams stretched through the back windows of the bank’s drive-thru, painting the teller area in a golden glow. I sat at my workstation with a mug of hot green tea as I pored over customer lists and took the occasional phone call. As mornings go, it was like a hundred before.
And then Jayme* bounced in.
She dropped her purse under the counter and wiggled her computer mouse. “I had the craziest dream last night.”
With those seven words, all sense of the ordinary drained from my day. Before her sentence had completely melted into the air, dread congealed in my stomach. I knew, somehow, I just knew, that though this dream had unfolded behind Jayme’s eyelids, it was meant for me.
I straightened a stack of customer receipts, smiling at my co-worker against the tension driving my heartbeat. “What did you dream?”
Jayme tossed her shiny mane and plopped into a swivel chair. Between her airy movements and her generous, bubbly laugh, she seemed as perky as ever. It was easy to see why our customers loved her so much. But I knew what the adoring community didn’t—that after an ugly divorce, a subsequent string of self-centered boyfriends, and her mom’s recent fatal overdose, Jayme’s twenty-one-year-old heart couldn’t be more battered if it had been pelted with bowling balls.
Jayme tapped a pen on the counter and then swiveled to look me in the face. “You were in my dream.”
My toes curled in my TOMS. I’d already known.
“It was so weird. It was dark, and someone was after me. I was trying to find a safe place, but I was lost. Then I looked up and there was this huge mansion. The lights were on inside, and through a window I could see a gorgeous bedroom. You were sitting on the bed with your hair all pretty, holding a mirror and smiling. I kept screaming for you to help me, but you didn’t hear. You just kept smiling into the mirror.” She laughed. “Isn’t that random?”
Jayme turned toward an approaching customer just in time not to see the tears that burned my eyeballs. Random? Maybe not so much. Conviction kicked me in the gut. I needed a prayer room.
I began to mechanically file documents, but the bank had pretty much faded away. The tat-tat-tat of Jayme’s teller machine validating a receipt, the ding! of the drive-thru bell, the drone of the boss on a phone call in his office . . . Everything was gone except a blazing image of myself preening in a mirror and the quiet voice of God etching itself into my soul.
You have the Answer Jayme desperately wants. But you’re so self-absorbed—so intoxicated with yourself, so addicted to your comfortable life—that you don’t even care.
My heart felt like it was breaking—and it was about time. For too long I’d been dangerously uninvolved. It was time to extract myself from my comfort zone; it was time to get over myself, time to start being Jesus to a hurting world . . .
I cut my glance to the girl not ten feet away whose teeth gave a dazzling flash as her customer waved goodbye.
I knew where I should start.
*Jayme is not her real name.